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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271276">to be the sun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbrains/pseuds/badbrains'>badbrains</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Nogitsune, Pre-Slash, Valentine's Day, a ficlet for valentine's day that i turned into an angst fest, you know the drill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:26:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271276</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbrains/pseuds/badbrains</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, the next year, on February eleventh, Claudia Stilinski sank into the ground, out of reach. For eternity. And Stiles was flooded with a blistering chill, something far cooler, far more unforgiving, than the ice incited by Lydia’s cold shoulder. Grief changes how you love, and Stiles no longer loved Lydia Martin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to be the sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceprincessem/gifts">spaceprincessem</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey guys, so this is for em, my lover in the nighttime, who simply requested that i write her a little post-nogitsune valentine's fic with protective derek and insecure stiles. i live to serve her whims, after all. that being said...i am so sorry that it turned into ... whatever this is LMAO</p><p>i would like to preface this by saying that, in terms of sterek, i am used to writing their dynamic within alternate universes. so my biggest struggle was leaving them in-character for the show, which i think is why i kept it in the pre-slash category rather than outright defining their relationship. so pls enjoy and do not flay me alive djdhgkjdkg</p><p>the title is a small <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/1054403-eating-fire-eating-fire-is-your-ambition-to-swallow-the">excerpt</a> from one of margaret atwood's poems in her collection <em> eating fire </em> </p><p>no beta so if you see any typos, if you just ignore them they will go away i promise</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Stiles has, over the years, made countless Valentine’s Day cards for Lydia Martin. His mother would sit with him at the dining table, help him cut hearts with squiggly craft-scissors and write his messages in pretty, curled handwriting, crowned in red glitter. She would buy candy hearts that said those little things like <em> be mine </em> and <em> you rock</em>. Stiles would go to sleep, vibrating with nervous energy, excited to present his creation in front of the class, vie for a chance to have Lydia look at him in something other than clinical distaste. </p><p>But, perhaps the most important thing that his mother taught him, spending all of those hours making glittered declarations, is that liking someone is not a transaction in which you aim to collect a debt. The last year he ever made Lydia a card - seventh grade, when Stiles still had a bad haircut and too-long limbs - his mother sat with him, told him something he will never, for the rest of his life, forget. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She carefully tucks his card into his backpack, the snick of the zipper swallowed by the sound of the air conditioning rumbling in the walls. She smiles softly at him, sitting gently on the edge of his bed.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You remember what we talked about?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He nods at her.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “How are you going to feel if she doesn't like it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Stiles swallows. “I am going to still be nice to her. Because it is okay if she does not want to be my Valentine.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Claudia ruffles his hair. “You should be proud, you made her something very beautiful. If she doesn’t like it, that does not mean your gift was bad, it just means Lydia is your friend. Sometimes, Stiles, it is better to just have a friend.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lydia, to no one’s surprise, did not like his valentine that year. Much like the year prior. She turned her nose at it and added it to the pile of obligatory, class-wide cards that were generic, movie-themed things. The kind that came in a box from the grocery store. That solidified some sort of resolve in him, that maybe he would channel that energy into being a good friend, from now on. Stiles may have only been twelve, but he knew when to give it a rest. </p><p>Then, the next year, on February eleventh, Claudia Stilinski sank into the ground, out of reach. For eternity. And Stiles was flooded with a blistering chill, something far cooler, far more unforgiving, than the ice incited by Lydia’s cold shoulder. Grief changes how you love, and Stiles no longer loved Lydia Martin. </p><p>The funny thing about grief is that it also changes your perspective of fear. Stiles already faced the thing he was most afraid of, he stood under rows of pine trees, stretched tall and relentless like soldiers, and fired off a twenty-one-gun salute for the one person he thought he couldn’t live without. Werewolves don’t even hold a torch. He’s lucky, in some ways, to have known what it felt like to be gutted of hope and stripped of humanity far before the Nogitsune seeped into his veins. </p><p>After that, Lydia didn’t get any more hand-made cards, and Stiles didn’t get any awards for Greatest Friend. </p><p>Now, as an adult, February fourteenth is just another day shrouded in loss. Another day swallowed by the ever-present thought that the monsters lurking around Beacon Hills could kill him. It’s just another day. </p><p>Scott, however, did not get the memo. The entire drive to Derek’s, the space in the jeep is filled with, “What do you think I should get for Kira? Do you think she would like to go to dinner, or is candy and a movie at home better? Would a pink or purple card be more fitting for her, you think?”</p><p>Eventually, Stiles grits his teeth against the primal, wolfish urge to growl right in Scott’s face. He just keeps his eyes straight ahead, shrugs and says, “If Kira loves you like you love her  - which she does - then Valentine’s Day is just like every other day, Scott.”</p><p>The ‘wolf blinks at him, mouth agape and face incredulous. “Uh, no it is not, Stiles. It is literally a holiday, which the basis of alone makes it different from<em> every other day</em>.” Scott crosses his arms. “Anyway, it isn’t about how much we love each other. We know that. It is about the implication.”</p><p>Stiles aims a tired glare at an innocent street sign as it flashes by his window. “It is about the implication...that you guys love each other.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>He just sighs. “Okay.”</p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>He releases one hand from its vicious grip on the steering wheel so he can rub the weariness blurring his right eye. He hasn’t been sleeping very well, dreams filled with someone he will never see again, someone he will never be again. “I think you should take her to dinner. I am sure she would probably like to do something where she can dress up.”</p><p>Scott snaps his fingers with a grin, like Stiles is a genius or something. “You are so right.”</p><p>Stiles just hums in response and puts up with Scott’s verbal date-planning until they pull up in front of the restored Hale house. He flies out the moment they are in park, likely because Kira’s car is already sitting out front. Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt and just sits there slumped for a moment. He traces his fingertips across the cracked leather of his seat, scraping his thumbnail over the rip in the upholstery by his thigh, not far above the recline lever. </p><p>He knows, deep down, that Scott doesn’t blame him. He knows that Scott was hurt, that for a long time it ached, and for a long time he couldn’t look at Stiles without this all-consuming expression of mourning morphing the lines of his face. Stiles can understand that, though. He can understand because he knows that it was the exact same way he looked at Melissa, heart throbbing with that bone-deep sensation of misplaced betrayal. <em> Why do you get to live? </em></p><p>But, bordering on a year later, Stiles cannot help but wonder if everyone’s unending compassion is ever going to give way for anger. If they are ever going to see him for who he is.  He curls his fingers against the ripped leather, pressing against the jagged edge until it almost hurts. He wishes they were angry. </p><p>With a sigh, he removes his key from the ignition and slowly makes his way out of the car. The group text had declared this to be <em> pack training</em>, and though Stiles has long since kicked his habit of feeling like he doesn’t belong here, sometimes it is still hard to sit idle with all of the people who know exactly what he is capable of. He is just on edge because it’s February, and every time he goes to the grocery store, or opens social media, or looks at his dining room table, all he can think about is his mom. All he can think about is how everyone is in love and his heart beats hard and restless in a casket across town. </p><p>He twirls his keyring around his pointer finger while he walks toward the house. Swings them around and pauses before swinging them again. Pacing his steps to the steady sound of <em> clink, clink, clink.  </em></p><p>When he gets inside, closing the door behind himself, they’re all looking at him. He clears his throat and aims for casual. “What?”</p><p>They all look away except for Derek, whose eyes burn brands along his face until he eventually sighs through his nose and averts his gaze. </p><p>Stiles goes someplace else, mentally. He stares at a small crack in one of the floorboards beneath his feet, until everyone is suddenly moving. He blinks the haze from his mind and follows them outside. Scott comes to stand beside him, bumping their shoulders. He whispers, “You okay?”</p><p>Stiles nods and gives him a small smile. </p><p>Scott nods back and stares at him for a moment before relaying that they are about to start training exercises. He is grateful that Scott can read between the lines. </p><p>Stiles seats himself on the back steps while everyone pairs up. He closes his eyes against the sun, letting it warm him as he listens to the others talking. When he blinks them open, Derek is standing across from him. Stiles has always felt something within himself push at the confines of his skin whenever the other man is around. Something tethered on a rope, fraying in his direction. But, after everything, Derek is this immovable force. A silent constant. Stiles can’t fuck this up by getting feelings involved.</p><p>Sometimes it is better to just have a friend. </p><p>Derek frowns and it makes his entire face slope downward; eyebrows slanted, eyes slitted. “What is wrong with you?”</p><p>Stiles shoots him a sarcastic smile. “Gee, you sure know just what to say. Is that an alpha thing or...” </p><p>That earns him an eyeroll and a reluctant tug of Derek’s lips. Stiles involuntarily mirrors it. Then, the ‘wolf stares at him seriously, appraising. There’s a pinch to his mouth, an expression that, over the years, Stiles has come to know precedes a comment that Derek is unsure about making. Finally, he relents, “I hate worrying about you.”</p><p>Stiles shrugs. “Then don’t.”</p><p>Derek scowls and crosses his arms, nods once, curt and final. Because while Derek may not like Stiles’ flippancy, he does respect Stiles. That has been the one constant, Derek has always respected him. While they butt heads, disagree callously, and often say things just to hurt each other’s feelings, they still regard each other with an air of careful admiration. Grudging reverence. Stiles gives him a slightly mean thumbs-up, punctuated with a smile, and Derek turns away, stomping over to begin training. </p><p>He zones out, barely hears the others running, panting hard and growling at each other while they...do whatever it is they are doing. Derek roughly barks <em> again</em>, <em> again</em>, <em> again</em>, until the afternoon sun makes way for the glow of evening, the low hum of insects in the woods punctuating each grunt of someone hitting the ground. Stiles just stares at his hands, the lines in his fingers, and wonders if they mean something, if they foretold a life of quiet grief. If they mark him as a killer. He squeezes his palms into fists and chooses instead to look out at the trees. He is wondering how far you would be able to see from the top of the tallest one until he is knocked over, suddenly blinking up at the sky, then at Derek’s face. His eyes are burning red, shining down on Stiles from where he is holding himself up above him. He turns his head and growls to the person beside them, “I told you to fucking <em> watch out</em>.” Derek blinks back down to Stiles and his eyes are once again aventurine. “You okay?” he asks, softer, hushed like a secret even though everyone around them can certainly hear it. He is so tired of everyone asking him that. Stiles cranes his neck to see Isaac pushing himself up from the ground, rolling his shoulders out. </p><p>He takes a deep breath in through his nose. It scared him, to be blindsided like that. It scares him to not be aware. It scares him that he can’t focus anymore, that there is a hollowed out husk within him that he thinks has always been there, despite everyone’s assurance. He exhales shakily. “Yeah. I’m good.”</p><p>Derek just stares down at him, makes no move to let Stiles up. He stares back, defiant. He doesn’t need to be coddled like a goddamn baby. </p><p>He says as much to Derek. Who scoffs. “You think this is coddling?”</p><p>Stiles rolls his eyes and moves to sit up, but Derek takes one hand and pushes him back down by the shoulder. Hard. Stiles bumps against the dirt beneath him and grits his teeth. He moves once more and Derek does it again, face impassive. “What are you <em> doing</em>?” he huffs, frustrated.</p><p>Derek’s voice is flat when he says, “You are training.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You don’t want to be coddled? Then you’re going to do what everyone else is doing.” He gives Stiles a look. It’s loaded, hard but not in a cruel way. “Try to get up.”</p><p>“Derek,” Scott warns, but the alpha snaps at him, “No one is talking to you, Scott.”</p><p>Stiles scowls. “I don’t want to.”</p><p>“Too bad. Get up.”</p><p>He purses his lips and fists his hands into the grass on either side of him, attempting to lever himself up. Derek easily pushes him flat on his back. Stiles tries again, pushing harder, moving faster. His shoulder blades dig into the ground again and again and again until his face feels hot, more with humiliation than anger. He’s so tired. Everything around him looks like his mom; the candy hearts by self-checkout, the floral wallpaper in the living room, the way his dad’s eyes catch on her chair at the kitchen table. Every time the pack is together like this, all Stiles can see is who is missing. He feels tears well up in his eyes that have nothing to do with Derek making a point. </p><p>Stiles heaves in a quivering breath, wet and labored, and falls back against the grass. He is giving up. “I can’t do it,” he admits miserably. He isn’t talking about the exercise. The way Derek’s eyes go soft and sad suggests that he knows. Stiles guesses he does, more than anyone. He turns to face the woods so he doesn’t have to see the expression anymore. Derek is off him immediately, still hovering close and extending a hand to help Stiles up. He doesn’t take it, pushing himself upright by the palms and swiping at his eyes. </p><p>Scott is by his side instantly. “Hey, Batman. Let’s just go home. You’ve had a long day.”</p><p>Stiles nods and absently follows Scott around the house to the jeep, refusing to acknowledge Derek’s stricken look. When they make it to the front yard, he asks Stiles, “You okay to drive?” He purses his lips and Scott smiles at him, small and friendly, before fishing in Stiles’ pocket for the keys. </p><p>On the ride home, he cranks the window down. He rests his arm outside of it, swaying his hand in the wind the way children do, palm outlined by the soft orange of the sky. Gooseflesh pebbles up from the chill, making the hair on his arm stand straight. He sighs and rests his head in the crook of his elbow, closes his eyes to the wind, letting it engulf his face until he doesn’t feel like he is on fire anymore. </p><p>When they turn onto Woodbine, the green street sign reflecting across Stiles’ vision, Scott pulls into his driveway and sighs. He twists to face Stiles, regarding him with serious eyes cancelled out by the subtle quirk to his lips. “You want me to kick Derek’s ass?”</p><p>Stiles breathes a laugh. “You wish.”</p><p>He makes a noise of protest. “Hey. I could <em> so </em>kick his ass. Like, twice. Without breaking a sweat.”</p><p>Stiles drapes himself against the car door, bringing a hand to his heart. “My hero.”</p><p>“Damn right.”</p><p>They go quiet and Stiles stares through the windshield at his house. His dad’s cruiser is in the driveway, the porch light on awaiting Stiles’ arrival. He unbuckles his seatbelt and Scott clears his throat. “Are you seriously okay?”</p><p>Stiles takes a deep breath and blows it out, an explosive sigh. “It’s just - February is a lot for me. You know.”</p><p>Scott winces. “Fuck, Stiles, I forgot. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have made you come with me. God, and then I talked about Valentine’s Day all the way—”</p><p>Stiles smiles at him, sincere. “Scott, it’s fine. The world doesn’t stop turning whenever I can’t handle it.”</p><p>“Well, it should,” he insists. He looks at Stiles. “Dude, you want me to stop the Earth for you? Because I will.”</p><p>He pushes at Scott’s shoulder, they’re both laughing, and says, “Shut the fuck up. Please.”</p><p>Scott bids him goodbye with a long hug, and Stiles sinks into it. It’s one of those hugs where Scott rubs his hand back and forth across Stiles’ upper back, chin hooked over his shoulder so Stiles can feel it when he says softly, “I’m here if you need anything.”</p><p>“I know,” Stiles whispers back.</p><p>Unlocking the front door feels harder than it has ever been, like his limbs are weighed down and he can’t get the key in. When he locks up behind himself, his dad is leaning on the kitchen counter, waiting on the microwave to finish heating up what looks like last night’s lasagna. </p><p>Something deep within him feels bad about that. Amplifies an ache. Stiles rubs at the back of his neck. “Hey, pops, I could make something else if you want.”</p><p>His dad sends him a sad smile. “I’m all good, kiddo. Nothing beats leftover lasagna.”</p><p>Stiles knows that he really means <em> nothing beats your mom’s favorite recipe</em>, but he nods all the same. He moves to go toward the stairs when his dad says, quiet, “She would have hated how sad we are during the month of love, you know. She would have hated it.”</p><p>He does not want to have this conversation. Does not know why they are talking about this instead of avoiding it like every other year. His eyes search for anything to look at other than his dad’s weary face and clocks the bottle of whiskey, uncapped, on the edge of the dining table. He feels himself sagging. Now he knows why his dad wants to have this conversation. </p><p>“Yeah. She would have.”</p><p>He offers nothing else, carrying himself up the stairs when he hears the microwave beep, even though it feels like he is heavy enough to fall through the floor, crack Earth’s layers until he sinks to the core where no one can reach him. It feels like no one can reach him. </p><p>When he clicks on his light, ready to stare at his ceiling until he doesn’t feel anything anymore, he is not surprised to see Derek idly flipping through the things on his desk. </p><p>“Let me guess,” he taps his chin like he has to think about it, “you feel bad. A sympathy card would be preferable. And more sincere, probably.”</p><p>Derek straightens up and looks at him. The pinch to his mouth is there, again. He heaves a sigh, like it pains him to be here. “I am sorry for pushing you earlier. That was unfair of me.”</p><p>He frowns. “It wasn’t unfair. You were treating me like everyone else.”</p><p>“I pushed you when I knew you weren’t…”</p><p>“Knew I wasn’t what,” he crosses his arms, “operating on all cylinders? No one likes Stiles if he isn’t researching this week’s Big Bad, is that it?”</p><p>“What? No. Look,” now Derek is scowling, it is infinitely more familiar than whatever grand gesture he was just attempting. “I’m just sorry for doing that to you when I knew you were not up for it.”</p><p>“You guys can’t keep treating me like some wounded animal.”</p><p>“We are not treating you like—”</p><p>“You guys look at me like all you can see is what I did.”</p><p>Derek takes a step closer to him. “Stiles, no one thinks that was your fault.”</p><p>“No one, huh?” he says it like it’s funny, smiles to himself while Derek frowns. “Well, I do.”</p><p>That earns him another big sigh while Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stiles,”</p><p>“Look,” he interrupts, “can we not do this?” He makes a point of sitting on the edge of his bed, unlacing his sneakers. He waves a hand. “Apology accepted, or whatever. You can go home and beat yourself up about it now.”</p><p>Derek does not leave, but Stiles still toes off his shoes and peels his socks off, refusing to say anything else. When Derek’s shadow falls across his legs, Stiles purses his lips and looks up. </p><p>“My family died in December.”</p><p>He immediately sits up straighter, giving his full attention.</p><p>“So, it is hard. To see all of the lights and the gifts and—” Derek puts his hands out, palms down, and makes a gesture like he is wiping away everything he just said. Deeming it irrelevant. “You aren’t alone. Is what I am trying to say.”</p><p>Stiles lies back on his bed, feet still on the floor while he lies flat to stare at the blades of his ceiling fan. “She used to make valentines with me,” he breathes it out as quietly as he can. As loud as he is willing to say it. He knows Derek can still hear him. “She was the only one who never got tired of my odes to Lydia Martin.”</p><p>“She sounds really nice,” Derek offers, voice low like he doesn’t want to scare this away. Lose it like everything else. </p><p>“She was.” He swallows and his throat clicks, sticking with the effort it takes to keep his breathing even while his vision swims. “She was the nicest.”</p><p>“Laura loved Valentine’s Day,” Derek confesses with a slight laugh, like he is recalling a fond memory. Stiles sits up to look at him. To see what affection looks like on his face. “She would make these - these <em> really ugly </em> sugar cookies that were supposed to be shaped like hearts. But, they just looked really bad. Worse every year, I think.”</p><p>Stiles cracks a small smile, imagining it. “My dad took my mom to the same place every year. She always acted surprised, though. Like she couldn’t possibly have predicted it. It was - it became an inside joke, for a while.” He wrings his hands just to have something to do other than ball them into fists. “She and my dad would make competitions out of it. Planning these super extravagant date-nights only to eat dinner at the same restaurant.”</p><p>Derek seats himself in Stiles' desk chair. “One time, Cora came home from school with a card from a secret admirer. It was really sweet, actually. A lot of effort went into it. But, she came home and cried so hard she threw up.”</p><p>He laughs at that, loud and unabashed. Derek laughs, too. Quieter, grinning at the floor. Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. “God, I made enough cards for Lydia to fill, probably, like, three reams of paper.” He shakes his head, almost embarrassed. “I did not know when to admit defeat.”</p><p>The other man looks at him, considering. “What made you finally stop?”</p><p>Stiles picks at the skin peeling by his thumbnail. He shrugs. “My mom taught me that sometimes having a friend is better than having a Valentine.”</p><p>Derek is oddly quiet. “Can’t you have both?”</p><p>He scoffs. “Not where Lydia Martin was concerned, no.”</p><p>Derek huffs a laugh that sounds more obligatory than anything, before saying, “Yeah. But, would you want both? With someone else, I mean. Not Lydia.”</p><p>He takes a moment to consider that at face value. What Derek is asking. Would he like to have a friend <em> and </em>a Valentine. Can they be one and the same. It’s somewhat ludicrous to think about, with darkness lurking in the woods - something new, bigger, badder - always ready to kill them all. They face death every day and Derek Hale wants to know if Stiles would like to stop being so goddamn lonely all the time. It is a loaded question, so Stiles simply tells him, “That’s a loaded question.”</p><p>“Is it? Seems pretty simple to me.”</p><p>Stiles rolls his eyes and collapses back onto the bed. “Of course I would. If I could, you know. But, I can’t.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Because I am too much. It’s just—” he can’t find the words he wants to say. “I am too much,” he repeats. </p><p>“Stiles, you are not too much.”</p><p>He forces a smile to avoid how he feels like he could cry, hearing those words. He tries to joke, “What? You trying to win Best Alpha or something?”</p><p>Derek does not take the bait. “I know that…” Stiles keeps staring at the plaster of his ceiling while Derek struggles to find the words. He traces the same spot over and over again with his eyes, remembering where he used to have glow-in-the-dark stars. Some wicked part of him thrives off of these moments, knowing that Derek, deep down, is just like the rest of them. Scared to be vulnerable. “I know that sometimes, when bad things happen…” he trails off again and makes a deep sound of frustration, a growl gritting up his throat. He huffs, “When bad things happen, it can make you feel like a bad person.” Stiles pushes up on his elbows to face him, and Derek looks directly into his eyes when he says, “But, you aren’t bad, Stiles. You never have been.”</p><p>“It feels like it. Sometimes.”</p><p>“Well, you aren’t. You aren’t too much. Not to anyone in this pack,” he sucks in a breath, says quieter, “not to me.”</p><p>Stiles mulls over that, turns it over and over in his head, getting used to how it feels. He guesses that Derek is probably the one person who could sincerely offer those words. Offer them up and mean them, because grief is intertwined in his veins. His grief is different from the rest of the pack’s, delves deeper than the loss of friends, encases something far more sinister. Encases people who are harder to live without. He thinks, then, that he is likely being told by someone who also believes themselves to be too much that he is not too much. He smiles to himself. He looks over to Derek, still smiling.</p><p>“Hey,” he calls softly, and the other man raises his eyebrows in reply. Stiles swallows, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to make valentines?”</p><p>Derek’s hands are too big for the craft scissors, he’s holding them awkwardly while he cuts a heart out of a piece of bubblegum pink construction paper, outlining where Stiles used glitter glue to write <em> HOWL ALWAYS BE YOUR FRIEND. </em>Derek paid for thirty-five dollars worth of craft supplies as well as a few oddball things that Stiles suspects are for different members of the pack. Stiles carefully taps glitter onto his card for Scott that says a few suggestive things about his jeep and riding. It’s fun, and it is the first time he has done something like this since his mom died. </p><p>When Derek leaves, they are both pleasantly flushed, Stiles from laughing and Derek from being in close proximity to Stiles, most likely. After the door clicks shut and Stiles is certain he is gone, he sits himself at the table to make the next card he needs to make. Years of fighting for Lydia Martin has prepared him for this, he knows the drill. He carefully outlines a heart on a piece of green construction paper and begins to write. <em> Dear Sourwolf… </em></p><p>He finishes the card and sits there for a moment, staring at it. He feels stupid, thinking of how he just spent twenty minutes making a valentine for a man who will probably just throw it away. He has never been too good at this. Feeling. The only person who would know what to say is across town, decaying. He sighs and grabs another piece of construction paper, purple this time. Her favorite color. He purses his lips and begins, <em> Hey mom, I know you haven’t heard from me in a while… </em>He’ll drop it off for her when he pays her a visit like he does every year. February eleventh becoming an annual event in and of itself. </p><p>Afterward, he neatly puts everything away, making little stacks on the edge of the table. He gently places his valentines on his desk and curls in his bed, facing the wall like he normally does. Maybe February doesn’t have to hurt so bad. Maybe being too much doesn’t mean no one can love him, maybe it means he has more of himself to give. He falls asleep without giving it much more thought. It’s just another day. </p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yell at me on <a href="https://iminsatiable.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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